Eighteen Nights
by Ammonite
Summary: Those eighteen nights were the longest of his entire life. Every atom in his body denies it, yet his brain argues, it’s true, it’s true, I saw it happen. She’s not here, she’ll never be here again.


**Eighteen Nights**

Night One:

Dee lies there as though he were an egg shell about to crack. He's sad and angry at the same time, so he just turns over, away from her, and admits it's what he wanted anyway, to huddle into himself and think of Kara. That's all that's left now, thinking - wouldn't she scoff at that. He has to tell himself over and over because he can't seem to believe it. Every atom in his body denies it, yet his brain argues, it's true, it's true, I saw it happen. She's not here, she'll never be here again. I'll never hear her crazy laugh, never smell her sweat, never feel her hair against my cheek, never see her bite her lip while she plans something deviously Starbuck.

That was how the night went, remembering everything he could. It started with that first evening in the bar; he couldn't remember the name of the place. Zak had been so excited and proud, and Kara had nearly won the local championship at darts. They had all ended up pretty high, and he had congratulated Zak as they pulled away in the taxi. That was how it had started.

It was amazing how much it helped, trying to recall every detail. He got as far as Anders before he fell asleep, somewhere around fifteen hundred. Two hours later the alarm went off.

Night Two:

Today was the funeral. Funerals are supposed to help those left behind say goodbye and move on. They had all gotten so very good at them, which wasn't the same as saying they were easy. Often as not, there weren't any bodies.

Helo got up there and told one of his old funny stories about her, which had actually lightened the place enough so that Lee thought maybe he was going to get through it okay. Being CAG, he had to say something. He had grasped the sides of the podium, stared across the tops of everyone's heads and, in his firm CAG's voice started right in on what a great pilot she had been. It was like reading from a cheat card, and he was fine until he imagined her out there laughing at what a lousy job he was doing. He could practically hear her heckling him from the back row. That's when he realized everyone was looking at him, and not a few appeared concerned. His lips moved and nothing came out, so he turned to his right and left the podium.

His father did a better job, right through the tears that poured down his cheeks.

Night Three:

Her picture is in his pocket. His pocket is connected to his pants, and they are hanging in the closet across the dark room. All day he couldn't keep himself from slipping it out and looking at it. It's comforting to know it takes only two fingers to reach in there and pull; it lays so perfectly in the palm of his hand. Her smile is relaxed, free of anger, worry. She is beautiful, so very beautifully Kara Thrace and every time he looks it's a war between how much he wants to keep looking and how much it hurts to do so. He had nearly removed it from his pocket and put it under his pillow tonight. What a fool. It was only because of Dee, or maybe that he might have wrinkled it unrecognizably, that he hadn't. Besides, it wasn't his, it was meant to go on the Memory Wall. But he couldn't give her up, not just yet. He lies there for hours picturing the times he has seen her with that smile and all the other smiles.

He's still not ready to say goodbye.

Night Four:

He had been on CAP today, coasted off mission coordinates and would have kept right on going if Racetrack hadn't come on line and asked him where the he was going. He'd been pissed at Racetrack all day. Not because she'd warned him, but because it had been her instead of Starbuck. Racetrack had been way too gods damn polite about it. Starbuck would have ribbed him for at least the next three days.

Her viper had been so tiny against the dark swirling cloud.

Come back, come back. Starbuck! Kara!" She was glorious. Horribly glorious and his own screaming woke him up.

He was only screaming in the dream; he was gasping now, enough to wake Dee.

"It's all right. Go back to sleep. Really."

He had no idea it was merely the first of gasping awake after the same dream.

Night Five:

Everything bugged him, especially how everyone gave him extra space, glanced out of the corners of their eyes, and stopped talking in the middle of sentences when he entered the room. And those little, sly smiles were driving him crazy - they couldn't say anything so they smiled. Gods, he wanted to hit someone. So he went to the gym and mashed and pushed and lifted until he was exhausted. He imagined her shaking her head and laughing at him there, too. If only she really would.

After his shower, he was still angry. Too angry to eat. Dee came in after a late workout, all sweaty and glistening. She looked incredible. The anger segued into need and they made love. He hadn't realized how much he needed the closeness, to feel elemental and truly alive. He was more desperate than usual, but Dee understood why. He still managed to please her first; he was ever the officer and the gentleman. But when he lost himself in those final moments, the release was too much, it released everything and he broke into sobs that would not stop.

She said nothing, held him close above her and was relieved it had finally come. She cried her own silent tears. Maybe they could begin to move forward now, a step at a time.

Yet, hours later, the nightmare woke them both.

Night Six:

He went through her things today . . . for the auction. Usually he did this in about fifteen minutes, but this time it took him over an hour. This morning the admiral had him into his quarters for tea and asked him how he was doing. He had hidden himself in military jargon; it had become a habit, easily adopted by both of them with hardly a thought. Then, "Putting it off won't make it any easier." It had taken a few seconds to realize what he meant. There had been no response; he hadn't even felt defiant, merely caught out. They had blinked at one another. The mutual pain had been both satisfying and unbearable.

Fortunately the two pilots that had been in there, Hotdog and Roller, had cleared out after he came in, leaving him alone. His head was buried between his hands, and in his hands were Kara's crumpled sweats. He had teased her about her hygiene, and she had worn these at least once without washing them. Thank gods. This was foolish, but he allowed himself a few seconds . . . a few more, then quickly tossed them into the laundry bin where they would be recycled. Wiped his hand across his face and reached to the upper shelf. Toothpaste, soap, comb - ah gods, there was a blonde hair within the teeth. He pulled it out, brushed his hand roughly on his pant leg where it stayed, tried to brush it away and watched it float upward in Galactica's air currents, upward across the room until it finally faded, faded until it was gone. It was still there somewhere, but he couldn't see it. It kicked him in the gut then, something nearly broke him, a sharp, low cough, and both fists hit the sides of her locker with a bang. He swallowed it down, slowly rose his head right to the photograph taped to the back of the door, the three of them. Took in a deep breath and let it out, pulled the thing close. There was a long crack between his image and theirs; it would be easy to tear him away. Was this from the many times they had torn one another from their lives? So much wasted time. He would keep this one - the only picture he would have of Zak, the only one of Kara.

He had to prove he was still CAG, to his pilots and, most of all, to himself. So he stood up there on a crate and held the best auction over. He had failed her funeral, but she would never forgive him if he failed her at this. "Everyone here should have a piece of the best gods damn pilot the Galactica or any battlestar in Colonial Fleet has ever seen fit to leave their Flight Deck. This is for Starbuck, gentlemen and ladies, and if you don't drink the most, spend the most, and get crazier than a bunch of fleas on a hot grill, I'll see you all in hell. And I mean while you're alive." He'd held it at Joe's Bar and started it off with eight bottles of Joe's best.

Joe's had to close the next two days for lack of booze. Starbuck would have been proud.

If he had any nightmares that night, he slept through them.

Night Seven:

Anders literally bumped into him and declared he wanted to fly vipers. He'd decided at the auction last night; it seemed the only thing to do. He wanted to be with the people who had known Kara. He wanted to be in her world. He couldn't stand being so far away; he had to be on Galactica. He had hung onto Lee's arm so tightly it had hurt. Lee hadn't the heart to tell him to let go because he had been so desperate. He had looked into Anders' eyes and seen himself.

"Racetrack's taking on a new group of nuggets right now. Go see her."

At first, the man had looked at him as though he hadn't understood. Lee had nearly panicked that Anders had been about to break down right in front of him. But the guy had loosened his grip on Lee's arm a little, taken a quick breath and given him the merest smile.

"Thanks . . . thanks."

He had walked away then. Lee had stood there in the corridor after he had left, while people passed him in both directions, feeling as though he had just done someone a tremendous favor. He hadn't though; he'd done nothing, really.

That night the nightmare was back.

Night Eight:

On CAP today his reaction time had been way down. Probably because he wasn't getting enough sleep. If he didn't get it together, he would be endangering his pilots, so he went to see Doc Cottle. To his surprise, the Doc wasn't the least bit surprised, except Lee was dressed down for not having come to him sooner.

"You people constantly get on my nerves the way you think you're four degrees above any normal human being. Take one of these at least six hours before you set the alarm. And make sure you have at least six hours, damit. Any other problems, I mean anything, you come see me right away. Got it?"

As he lay in bed after taking the pill, it came to him that it had been eight days since he had seen her. The only other times it had been that long were when she was on New Caprica and when she had gone to find the arrow. It would be longer than that now. It would be forever. Gods. It hit him hard in his chest . . . forever. He was never going to see her again. He was slightly short of breath and just a little sick. How long would it go on like this? Every day, every night, remembering she was gone.

Night Nine:

He was getting used to the way people were acting around him - their little glances, their avoidances. He didn't mind so much any more because he didn't have to explain anything. Like why he was late for the briefing or why he forgot that new nugget's call sign or any number of mess-ups he had been committing lately. He hoped no one saw him slipping her picture from his pocket; he was pretty careful about that. He might be late for briefings and meetings sometimes, but he was getting there, even managed to pay attention most of the time. Hadn't had a drop of liquor since Starbuck's auction, even then he hadn't had much. Which was more than he could say for Anders. The poor guy was falling apart.

If he was having nightmares, the pills were keeping him unaware of them.

Night Ten:

Was it his fault? Would she still be here if he hadn't urged her to fly that last time? It was time to face this head on, because it had been nagging at him for days. The only way it could possibly be true was if she had already lost it. Had Kara been completely unfit to fly when he had convinced her to go out there with him as her wingman? Plus, why had he pushed her?

She had been acting odd, but, lords, didn't every pilot sooner or later? If they took every pilot off the line who acted odd, there wouldn't be anyone left to fly. And Kara was their best. Had been. As crazy as she'd ever been, she'd always been proven right. Kara without a viper would have been like a bird without wings. If she had seen something out there, something had been there. He would bet his life on it. He practically had. He still believed everything he had believed then. But, damn, why had she left . . . again?

Night Eleven:

"How's it goin'?"

Lee had nearly jumped out of his skin because the only person who ever talked to him first these days was his father, and the voice wasn't his. He was in the CIC reading the Daily Orders and Helo had wandered up behind him.

"It's . . . all right."

"Seems quiet, doesn't it. No cylons. Or . . . anything."

"Yeah." He knew they were both thinking it was quiet without Kara Thrace to liven things up, remembered that Helo was an old friend, one of her best friends. He should attempt something more. In spite of past differences, for Kara's sake.

"I miss her." He said it so only Helo could hear, and looked right at him.

"Me, too." Helo looked right back, then turned slightly and put both hands on the center console. They stayed side-by-side until Lee left for afternoon CAP.

Night Twelve:

The Galactica was buzzing about Baltar's Trial; there was actually going to be one. Though many people dreaded it, Lee was relieved. One, they hadn't yet become a vengeance-seeking mob, and two, maybe it would take everyone's minds off Kara's death. Some of the time anyway. Maybe people would stop tiptoeing around him so much.

Night Thirteen:

Grounded. It had burned him like hell at first. But tonight, lying here in bed with more time to think back on it . . . well.

Someone had extinguished Baltar's lawyer, and his father and President Roslin had found a new one. He was supposed to baby-sit the guy. This Lampkin was a strange but interesting character. And he had known Grandfather Joe. Plus, being involved in the trial would get his mind of other things. Most of the time. But not at night when he was lying in bed like this, when there was all kinds of time to think. Kara had always said he thought too much. If only she could have shown him how to turn it off like a water faucet. She had shown him so many other things. Good and bad. Some had hurt like hell. But he didn't regret any of them. Not even that night on New Caprica. Right now he regretted that least of all. In fact, she could come in here and give him three of her hardest most devastating punches and he would lie right here and take it. Love it, in fact. If only she would.

Night Fourteen:

He had frakked this one up royally. Might be with Kara right now if it weren't for a cat. If he knew for sure, he'd be damned disappointed. She's laughing at him again. Will a day come that he'd forget the sound of her laugh?

Night Fifteen:

First he wasn't good enough to fly, now he's wasn't good enough to second Baltar's lawyer. What else was new.

Lee had never met anyone like Lampkin. He had talked to the cylon today and damned if he didn't manipulate the thing. It was like watching a master at work. Had Granddad Joe been that good? If only there'd been a chance to see him in the courtroom.

There was something else he'd said about love being worth more than strength. Over sixteen years ago Lee had a similar discussion with someone about whether it was worth more than duty. He was feeling as though that revolving cycle kept coming around to bite him in the ass. Twice now he'd lost. What kind of fool was he and how many chances did he get?

Night Sixteen:

It was Kelly. Lee had been ready to hate the terrorist, but now he was so damn disturbed. What was this so-called war doing to them? That someone like Kelly was reduced to bombing other human beings? They had all been reduced, including him. What did it take from humanity when humanity was fighting for survival? When did get to the point that humanity wasn't worth it?

_Do you have an opinion Kara? Is it clear where you are now? Or doesn't it even matter any more? Is all this drama merely a game of fools._

Night Seventeen:

It had become clear that the trial was a farce. The people and the judges had already decided that Baltar was guilty, certainly his father had. But he would keep at it because there was no choice. No more than he could choose to turn off his mind or stop the beating of his heart.

_Ah Kara, when is it going to get easier? Five days left of these pills. _

_Your husband is a mess. I think he's trying to take your place, but he should know better. I'm reminded how easily you drank him under the table. Did you realize what turmoil you'd leave behind?_

Night Eighteen:

Dee had left him. After all they'd been through, she had left him because of the trial . . . supposedly. He wasn't so sure.

_Lords you'd be pissed if you'd heard me and Dad today. I'd like to think you'd have been on my side in this one. You can no longer call me a superior ass hole, just a plain, old, suit and tie ass hole . . . if you like. I won't even mind. I've thought about it though, and I'm right, damn it. Everyone of us has done things in this war we're not proud of, and we can't throw Baltar to the wolves for them. We have to at least attempt to be a society of rule and law that applies to everyone equally._

_There's pills left in the bottle, and they're going to stay there. After everything, tonight, I don't need them._

_- - - - - - - - - - _

The cylons were here, and they needed every available pilot, so he was in his Mark VII with guns hot. The familiar adrenaline rush, the thundering heartbeat, the usual litany buzzing his brain, eyes scanning the field, when it happened - the bogey.

Her viper, her words, her face, her smile.

_I saw that viper blow. I've seen it blow in my dreams. But there she is, and she's beautiful. She sounds so beautiful. Have I lost it? _

_What difference does it make?_

_Every time I begin to adjust to her being gone, she returns. This is so typical._

_Of course it's Kara._


End file.
